Missing Pieces (23 page)

“She’s always telling me what to do, and I’m sick of it,” Richard Lifeson repeated.

“I don’t tell him what to do,” his wife protested.

They were a nice-looking couple, fresh-faced and well scrubbed. They’d been married three years; it was the first marriage for both; they had no children; they were contemplating divorce. I checked my notes to reacquaint myself with the particulars of their situation, then my watch to determine how much of the session I’d already missed.

“Are you kidding?” Richard Lifeson asked. “Tell her what happened right before we got here.”

“Why don’t
you
tell me,” I suggested, concentrating on his wide forehead, his square jaw, in a concerted effort to keep Colin Friendly out of my office, out of my thoughts.

“I wanted to buy some potato chips,” he began, “and she tells me to get that new low-fat kind. I don’t like the low-fat kind, they have no taste, and why should she care, she doesn’t eat them anyway. But, of course, what kind do I end up having to buy? Guess.”

“I never said you had to buy them. I just made a suggestion.”

“Her Majesty never suggests anything. She issues proclamations.”

“There he goes again, putting me down. He’s always
putting me down. I can’t say one thing to him without his putting me down.”

“Like what?” Richard Lifeson asked. “When do I put you down?”

“Try last night when we went to my niece’s ballet recital,” Ellie Lifeson answered before I could step in. “After it was over, he asked me which dance I liked best and I told him I liked the one with the swans, and he said, ‘That just shows how little you know about ballet.’ And we end up in this huge fight, so, of course, we go to bed angry, and we don’t make love. Again,” she added pointedly.

“You going to order me to make love to you now?” Richard Lifeson demanded.

“Okay, wait, wait,” I said calmly. “There are a lot of issues here. Let’s try to take them one at a time. First, with regard to the potato chips: Ellie, you think you’re being helpful; Richard, you think she’s being dictatorial. This is a gender issue. Women think they’re making suggestions. Men hear them as orders.”

“I’m not allowed to make suggestions?”

“I know it won’t be easy, Ellie, but try to curb your desire to help out. And, Richard, you have to learn to stand your ground. If you don’t want low-fat potato chips, you have to say so.”

“And get into a huge argument?”

“You get into a huge argument anyway,” I told him. “Maybe not about the potato chips, but all that repressed anger is going to come out somewhere.”

“She’s the one who’s always angry.”

“Because you’re always putting me down.”

“Try to avoid words like ‘always’ and ‘never.’ They’re counterproductive and inflammatory. And, Ellie, remember that nobody can put you down unless you allow it. Let me show you how the conversation after the ballet recital could have gone. Ellie, I’ll be you; you be Richard. ‘So,
Richard,’” I began, addressing my comments to Ellie, “‘which dance did you like best?’”

Ellie automatically deepened her voice, speaking as if she were Richard. “‘I liked the modern one at the end. What about you?’”

“‘I liked the one with the swans,’” I told her.

“‘That just shows how little you know about ballet,’” Ellie huffed.

“‘You didn’t like it?’”

“‘I thought it was terrible.’”

“‘That’s very interesting,’” I said. “‘I liked it. I guess we have different tastes.’”

Ellie and Richard stared at me in silence.

“You see?” I said. “Nobody gets put down; nobody fights.”

“It’s that simple?” Richard asked.

“Nothing’s simple,” I told him. “It’s a whole new way of relating, a brand-new vocabulary. It’ll take time to learn, even more time to put into practice. But eventually, it gets a little easier.”

They looked skeptical.

“I promise,” I said.

At home, Larry and I were at each other’s throats.

“Sara’s teacher called today,” I announced one evening as Larry sat, feet comfortably up on the ottoman, watching a hockey game on TV. The girls were in their rooms, supposedly doing homework.

“What did she have to say?”

“Who said her teacher is a woman?”

“Sorry, I just assumed.”

“Are all teachers necessarily female?”

“Of course not. What did this teacher have to say?”

“She said that Sara has been …”

“She?”
Larry asked. “So, her teacher
is
a woman?”

“This one is, yes.”

“The one who called.”

“Yes. What’s the big deal?”

“You’re the one who made it a big deal,” he said.

“Are you interested in what she had to say or not?”

“Yes, I said I was.”

“I don’t remember you saying any such thing.”

“Maybe if you paid attention.”

“You’re saying you don’t get enough attention?”

“Just tell me what Sara’s teacher had to say,” he said.

“She said that Sara has been acting very strangely.”

“She just noticed?” He smiled.

I refused the chance to smile back. “Stranger than usual,” I said.

“How so?”

“Nothing she could put her finger on.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Are you going to treat this whole conversation as a joke?”

“I’m certainly not going to get all worked up about it.”

“You never do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m starting to feel like a single parent around here.”

“Excuse me? You want to clarify that statement?”

“It means you’re never here.”

“I’m
never
here?”

“You’re always on the golf course.”

“I’m
always
on the golf course?”

“When you’re not at work,” I qualified.

“Oh, so I work. Well, thanks for noticing.”

“It really doesn’t bother you that our daughter is failing?”

“She’s failing?”

“She failed her last two English tests.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“Why should I be the one who talks to her about it?”

“All right. Do you want me to talk to her about it?”

“And just what would you say?”

He was on his feet. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

“I don’t think you should put her on the defensive.”

“I wasn’t planning to put her on the defensive.”

“Just tell her that her teacher called and that she’s very concerned about Sara’s recent behavior.”

“If you’re going to tell me what to say, why don’t you talk to her yourself?”

“Because I always talk to her, and I’m tired of being the one who takes care of everybody’s problems. I do it all day at work, and when I come home, I’d like somebody else to shoulder a little bit of the responsibility. Is that too much to ask?”

“Apparently, since you won’t let me do it.”

“I’m just trying to help you. Is your ego so frail that you can’t take a few simple suggestions?”

“Is your ego so inflated that you can’t imagine I might not need them?”

“You’re really a bastard sometimes, you know that?”

He flipped off the television, walked out of the family room.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed.”

“I thought we were having a discussion.”

“The discussion is over.”

“Why? Because you say it is?”

“That’s right.”

I followed him into our bedroom. “That’s very mature.”

“I thought one of us should be.”

“Meaning?”

He reached the bed, started throwing pillows into the air. “I don’t want to fight with you, Kate. I don’t have the strength. I’m tired. You’ve been on my back all week.”

“I’ve been on your back?”

“Yes.”

“How could I be on your back when you’re never here?”

“I don’t know, but you manage.” He tossed the remaining pillows on the floor. One landed close to my feet.

“Watch that!” I yelped, as if I’d been injured.

He looked startled. “Watch what?”

“You almost hit me with that.”

“What are you talking about? It’s nowhere near you.” He pulled down the covers of the bed, started undressing.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep,” I told him.

“Kate, it’s been a long day. You’re obviously all worked up about something, and I don’t think it has anything to do with either Sara or me.”

“Oh, really? And when did you earn your psychology degree?”

“Let’s stop before we say things we’ll regret.”

“I don’t want to stop. I want to know what you think I’m so worked up about.”

“I don’t know. Maybe your sister, maybe your mother, maybe something happened at work that I don’t know about.”

“Or maybe it’s you,” I shot back.

“Maybe it is,” he agreed. “Maybe you’re right, and I’m the problem. I accept it. You’ve made your point. You win. I’m a rotten human being.”

“I never said you were a rotten human being.”

“I’m sure you were getting to it.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’d like to put a gag in your mouth.”

“What?” I gasped. “Are you threatening me?”

Anger flushed his cheeks bright red. “I’m suggesting that we both shut up and try to get some sleep.”

“You’re telling me to shut up?”

“I’m telling you to get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to get some sleep.”

“Then shut the fuck up!” he shouted, and climbed into bed.

And then he didn’t say another word. No matter what I said or did, how much I tried to provoke him, how hard I tried to pull him back into the fray, he wouldn’t bite. Instead, he withdrew, burying himself inside his covers as if inside a cocoon. The harder I tried to drag him out, the farther he retreated.

I accused him of being a poor husband, a bad father, an indifferent son.

He sighed and turned over.

I accused him of caring more for his golf game than his family.

He put a pillow over his ears.

I said he was selfish, childish, and mean.

He brought the comforter up over his head.

I told him he was being passive-aggressive.

He feigned sleep.

I told him to go to hell.

He pretended to snore.

I stormed from the room.

We didn’t speak for three days.

It didn’t help that I knew Larry was right. He wasn’t the problem. Maybe I would have liked it had he spent more time at home on the weekends, but, truthfully, I didn’t begrudge him his golf games. Maybe I was even a little jealous. At least Larry had somewhere to go, a place to escape the insanity that seemed everywhere around us. I had nowhere. Work didn’t help—it only compounded my confusion. I was so busy being in control at the office that
I was losing it at home. Larry was my scapegoat, and for a while, he seemed to understand this, but there’s only so much understanding a person can have.

What I really wanted was for Larry to take me in his arms, as Robert had done that morning in the courthouse, and to tell me that everything was going to be okay: Sara would get out of high school and into the college of her choice; my mother would slough off her alien skin and become the woman I’d known and loved all my life; my sister would get off the front pages and back to her senses; Colin Friendly would die and we’d get on with our lives. Was that too much to ask?

But even when Larry did just that, it wasn’t enough.

“It’s okay,” he said one evening as I cried softly against his shoulder. The trial had concluded that afternoon, and despite predictions of a speedy verdict, the jury had been out for over five hours. Reporters were now speculating that if a verdict wasn’t returned within the hour, the jury would be dismissed for the weekend.

“What could possibly be taking them so long?” I asked.

“I think they’re just going over all the evidence, and that by this time on Monday, it’ll all be over,” Larry said, telling me what he knew I needed to hear. “Colin Friendly will be on death row; your sister will be back to normal. Well, normal is a relative concept when it comes to your sister,” he said, and I laughed gratefully. And then we were kissing, softly at first, and then with greater urgency.

It had been several weeks, I realized, since we’d made love. In fact, the last time a man had kissed me this way, it hadn’t been Larry at all, but Robert. “Oh God,” I said guiltily.

Of course, Larry misinterpreted my guilt for passion, and suggested we go into the bedroom. It was Friday night and the girls were both out for the evening.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” I asked between kisses, as he led me into our room, stopping beside our bed.

“Best idea I’ve had in weeks,” he said, sending the fourteen decorative pillows to the floor with one wide sweep of his arm.

“What if the kids come home?”

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?”

“I’ll close the door,” he said, leaving my side to close the door. In the next instant, his lips were back on mine, and his hands were at my breasts, undoing my blouse. “I’ve missed you,” he said, slipping the blouse off my shoulders and onto the carpet.

“I’ve missed you too,” I told him, as his fingers gently teased my nipples through the lace of my bra. “That tickles,” I said, feeling mildly irritated, though I wasn’t sure why.

His fingers fidgeted with the hooks of my bra.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“No, let me,” he urged softly. “I’m just a little out of practice, that’s all.” He struggled for several more seconds before I ran out of patience and reached behind me to unsnap the recalcitrant hooks.

“I wanted to do that,” he said.

“Don’t whine,” I started to say, but he covered my mouth with his kisses, and pushed me down on the bed, his lips moving to my bare breasts, fastening themselves on my nipples.

In the past, this was always something I enjoyed. Now it annoyed me. As Larry sucked on first one breast, then the other, I found myself growing increasingly angry. “That tickles,” I said again, squirming away from his insistent mouth.

He moved on, undoing the zipper of my gray trousers and sliding them easily off my hips.

“Careful with those,” I admonished as he tossed them aside, his fingers tracing the outline of my lace panties, his lips returning to my nipples. I felt nothing, no sexual stirring of any kind. Just growing irritability. I tried fantasizing: I was a slave girl being auctioned off to the highest bidder. There were perhaps a dozen men pawing me, lifting my skirt to inspect the merchandise, exposing me to their hungry eyes …